“Hey! Where are you going?” Hugh shouted at the two crusties crossing the green.

“We’re on the footpath!” one yelled.

“It’s a golf course,” Hugh shouted back.

The other crusty replied that it was a right of way. Hugh gripped his club, feeling his body tense with rage.

“We’re trying to keep you safe,” he shouted back.

“Just don’t hit the fucking ball then. Wait a minute, dickhead.”

The crusties had almost finished crossing. Hugh looked down and saw that he had raised the golf club. He wanted to hurt them. Break his club on them, and then break his fists on them. He might have done it had Gary not put his hand on Hugh's shoulder. “Ignore them, take the shot.”

That was easy for Gary to say. He'd been raised in money, he'd not had to drag himself away from people like those. Hugh shuffled his feet back into position, took the swing, and knew he'd got it wrong as soon as he struck the ball. His stroke had the force it needed, but his aim was off. “Those fucking tenants,” he hissed under his breath, not wanting Gary to know how angry he was.

Heading to take their next shot, Hugh and Gary crossed the footpath. The golf course was a good one, apart from a few ancient rights of way crossing the greens, which ruined the illusion of exclusivity. That was the problem with Hugh's life. It was full of footpaths, too many ways for irritations to enter his life. Too many people with no respect for others. The old Hugh would never have let those crusties speak to him like that. He'd have battered them for it, because if he had let one person take advantage, then everyone would. Now he had to pretend he didn't care.

Hugh couldn't get rid of his anger after those crusties. It sabotaged his game, ruining the last few holes so that Gary beat him comfortably. He could afford to buy the round at the game's end, but his own glasses of wine tasted sour and mean.

On the way home, there was a queue at the roadworks near the A27. He hated the things that he couldn't get control of. Traffic jams that reduced his Jaguar to the same speed as a renter's car. At eighteen he'd moved out of home and quickly sussed that the world was divided into landlords and tenants. He'd known which one he would be. Within days of moving out, he quit his course and was working at a letting agency in his cheap suit. Within six months he had his own agency and a proper suit.

Hugh parked in the drive of his Poynings house. Charlotte's car was gone so she'd probably taken the kids shopping. She was a footpath too, he thought. Hugh grabbed his golf clubs but instead of returning them to the garage he set out to the bottom of the garden where an old right-of-way crossed his land. His land. He was going to kill the next person who walked across it.

Background

This story is based around something that happened to Ben Graham and I on a Covid-era walk across Hollingbury golf course. We were more polite than the crusties in the story, but I remember my surprise at the golfer's outrage. I later realised that he saw us as the ones in the wrong, even though all we were thought we were doing was having a stroll, lost in a conversation.

I also remember Ben telling about how he walked around the East Brighton Golf Course during the lockdown, while it was shut to players, and how much he enjoyed that space.

Like any right-thinking person, I loathe golfers. And then I get to thinking about my inability to let other people have their pleasures. William Burroughs spoke about the world being divided between Johnsons and shits, and how a Johnson honours his obligations, give help when neeeded and minds his own business. Maybe I should mind my own business. There are far worse things than golf.

Recommendations

I've been to very few gigs since the pandemic. I've gotten comfortable with staying indoors and living a quiet life. I'd got to thinking that maybe I didn't live music all that much. Then I heard that Zheani was playing the UK and I just had to go.

I was introduced to Zheani's music through Spotify. Her songs have stuck in my head - Pathetic Waste, Napalm, Dirtbike, BWC, The Question, Dirt on the Name of Stephen. I've always loved performers with a strong image and I love Zheani's witchy style.

I don't know anyone else who might have come to this gig with me, so I bought a ticket by myself. I fretted as the day approached. Would I look like a weirdo, out of place compared to her other fans? Would I even enjoy the gig? Was it worth staying up late to watch someone perform for an hour or so?

It was an incredible evening. Zheani's performance was hypnotic. The audience were even more excited than I was to see her, and I loved that. I'd never met anyone else who likes Zheani's music, who's even heard of her - and now I was in a room with 250 fans. Being a part of that audience felt like a good thing.

Between one of the songs, Zheani talked about how important it was to tell your stories, and not be ashamed of them. I love the art that she has made from her life, and it was amazing to see a room full of people responding and empowered. I’m glad I went.